Tuesday, August 26

A lot of the time, it feels to me like I’m thinking about things, but then I go to put thoughts into a text editor or on a page or into spoken sentences that carry meaning to other people, and everything seems to scatter all at once into a sort of probability cloud of thought-like motions. What I have are not so much ideas as they are concerns, worries, senses of the need or obligation or possibility that maybe something will become an idea.

Increasingly, it feels like if a thing isn’t written, I may as well not have thought about it at all. I can’t tell if this is a function of deteriorating memory and cognition, or just a product of a life with too many moving pieces. It turns out that even quiet lives of little consequence, like the one I’ve slowly accreted about me, can contain too many moving pieces to easily grasp any one of them for long.

It’s quiet in my mind right now. I’m at home with the front door open onto a late-summer night just after brief rain. Crickets and frogs are loud, cars occasional. There has been lately the unmistakable, irreducible scent and feel of fall in the edges of things - in the cold air that pools in the low places late at night, in the mid-morning temperature, in the angle of the afternoon light. Here and there a few patches of leaves on the few deciduous trees have already turned.

After a while I step out onto the wet stones of the patio and Chris is walking up the drive. Hey hey, he says. Hey, I say. I think I’m gonna crack a beer, he says. I cracked a bottle of wine a while ago, I say. And so we sit for a while, generally just bullshitting over the last drink of the day. The bluegrass jam across the street sounds halfway decent with the frogs. One of those mouse-sized wolf spiders that lives in the boonies around here crawls over my right foot.

Things are all right.

p1k3 / 2014 / 8 / 26